If you have read Kipling's The Jungle Book, you know that the character of Mowgli is not the cuddly kid from Disney's animated version. He is, in fact, a stone-cold tiger killer who prefers to walk around naked. Mowgli divides his loyalties between civilization and the Indian wilderness.
The killing and naked parts are not the reasons I earned the nickname Mowgli a long time ago but it became applicable back in my journalism days, when I divided my time between raising a family in suburban Orange County and writing missives from far-off places. The jungles of Borneo are impenetrable, vegetation so thick that you get lost in an instant stepping off the trail. They're an adventure but you have to keep your wits about you.
So as I got off the Elizabeth Line and followed the crowds through the row of restaurants and pubs defining the mile walk from the Tube station to London Stadium yesterday, I was surprised and delighted to see an establishment called MOWGLI. Big sign. I wondered if they sold t-shirts. They did not. But it felt like a good omen anyway. I had a British IPA (beer drinkers will be surprised to know that most European IPA's are about as hoppy as a Coor's Light), then walked on to the stadium.
I was in London to see if Britain's Josh Kerr could break the world record for the mile. The occasion was the annual Diamond League meet. The trip was unplanned. My buddy Dan McClory texted me from Rome and asked if I wanted to meet him there. Sure. Why not? It's no surprise that I will use any excuse to hop a plane to London. Booked my hotel and paid with points, found a cheap economy fare (but alas, no upgrade), and the next thing you know Mowgli is in Mowgli.
The day began with three miles in Hyde Park, a thoughtful walk just to get the steps. Then the Elizabeth Line. Then Dan and I were on our feet along with 60,000 other track fanatics watching Kerr kick a 55-second last lap to break a record set 27 years ago.
Why stop there? A spicy curry for dinner. Then on to The Footman for the England-France game. It was no surprise that the patrons shouted many, many epithets at the French team every time England scored. The publicans kicked everyone out at midnight. Dan and I said our goodbyes on the sidewalk, then I wandered back to my hotel room. It was a lovely night for a walk, the air cool and heavy. By the time I arrived back at Carlos Place I had 24,780 steps for the day. Spread out over 16 hours it didn't feel like much.
The Connaught is a hotel I've stayed at time and again for the last 30 years. I have expressed a preference for a certain room location because it allows me to go from the gym back to my room without walking sweaty through the lobby. Very often I am accommodated.
This time, I was given the same room I occupied on my March trip. Walked in after all those steps and sat in the same gray chair by the bed where I wrote Calene's eulogy. Sipped Pelegrino and reflected on how stunned I must have been. How numb. How much I've processed these past four months — and how much more needs to be done. I made vows about new habits that will make me a better man once I get home, thinking I should write them down or I'll forget them by morning. I didn't and I have.
You know where all this is going. Mowgli lives, one foot in each world. It's just the jungle that has changed.